


which one of us is caving

by Feather (lalaietha)



Series: (even if i could) make a deal with god [your blue-eyed boys related short-fic] [60]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Days Can Be Bad And Good, Disabled Character, M/M, Mentally Ill Character, Natasha's Psychological Expertise, Recovery, Shower Sex, Unexpected Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:15:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3735343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalaietha/pseuds/Feather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And if Bucky's not surprised to hear Steve come around and into the kitchen, or startled to feel Steve's hand touch his shoulder, he's not expecting the follow-up to that to be Steve's arms wrapping tightly around his waist, hands working under his shirt to touch skin, or Steve's face buried in the crook of his neck, with Steve breathing like someone hauled out of deep water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	which one of us is caving

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of [**this series**](http://archiveofourown.org/series/132585), which is for short-fic associated with my fic [**your blue-eyed boys**](http://archiveofourown.org/series/107477), because I needed somewhere to stash it.

He kicks Steve out of the condo most days. 

Some days it doesn't really count as a hardship; some days it's honestly a relief to have Steve gone for a few hours, so that he can be a vicious miserable son of a bitch in private and without risking running into another human being (like he would if _he_ left), and more importantly without the constant awareness of Steve across the room or in a different one, worrying or worse, being fucking understanding. And there are a lot of those days. Bucky suspects there'll always be a lot of those fucking days. 

No. He's _afraid_ there'll always be a lot of those fucking days. He'll be honest enough with himself to just fucking acknowledge that. 

The cat has no respect for those days. The cat has no respect, more or less, for any kind of fucking day. The closest she'll get his hiding in the little box on the top of her damn cat-tree, and then only if he's got as far as breaking shit. These days he does that less - not never, but less, the uncontrollable drive towards destruction mostly replaced by acidic disgust at . . . more or less everything, if he's honest, but mostly himself. And as far as that goes, the little idiot doesn't care: she wants on his lap or his shoulder anyway. 

He's threatened to skin her once or twice, the pointless words pointed at something that can't even hope to understand them. They don't make him feel better, but the way she ignores anything and everything he says is almost amusing. Sometimes. 

So some days, telling Steve to get the Hell out and go do something else, to _go have a God-damned life already_ , isn't hard at all. And some days - most days, maybe, if by a very slim fucking margin - it's neither one thing or the other, and some of those are the days Bucky can stand to go out and do something else, too. They're patchwork, here and there. And he mostly fucking wishes he could pin down what makes them work when other days don't, but there's . . . fuck, there's too _many_ God-damned variables and he honestly has the feeling he doesn't even fucking know what they all _are_ yet. 

Doesn't know what else is somewhere back in his fucking patchwork, hack-job of a brain, invisible or just waiting for him to trip over it, them, whatever, but still fucking bending everything around them and adding their own fucking currents to the mess. He tries not to think about that, all that often. About what mines are still waiting to fucking blow. They're the kind of thoughts that hit the end of their spiral in _Christ someone should just fucking shoot me_ , and since that's not going to happen, it's not worth it. 

Those are . . .Bucky's not willing to call them good days, not mostly, half out of superstition that if he starts more of them will evaporate before they happen, and half out of how every time he starts he can hear that poor bastard from _The Princess Bride_ sniping, _And you think a little head-jiggle is supposed to make me happy?_ But they're better, and he tries to just let them be. 

And then there are days when the absolute last thing he fucking wants is Steve anywhere other than maybe a room away. Those are the days where he'll be honest with himself, at least, and admit there are worse things than a small furry lump that doesn't know the meaning of _go away_ , or at least doesn't give a shit. At least she doesn't have anywhere else she could be, or anything else she could be happier doing. 

They're also the days the walls feel like a trap, but if he lets himself leave he might not fucking stop. At least not for longer and farther than he wants to make his way _back_ when the fucking crazy lets go and he realizes he's fucking miles away and, if probably not tired in anything but his head, still fucking cold and a long way from home. Those are the days when people _existing_ where he can fucking see them feels like they're screaming at him, and if he ends up wishing someone would fucking shoot him it's mostly to make the noise _stop_. 

And he still mostly pushes Steve out if he can. Because the days when that was every fucking day pile up behind them and Bucky can feel them like a fucking anchor and he . . . can't. 

He hates that he does this. Has done this. Is this. Can't not try to make it less, as little as he can. 

It doesn't always work. They've had outright fights about it, which are probably some of the stupidest fights they've ever had, which is Bucky's fault, and they still have them. But it mostly works. 

 

Today it worked. 

Damn it. 

 

He spends most of the morning dragging himself through a book on the Long March, because if anyone ever accused him of having any fucking sense, they were as big an idiot as he is. He gives up around 11:30 and the end of his second pot of coffee, closing the book and dropping it on the dining-room floor on his way into the kitchen to start his third. The kitten darts over to sniff at the source of the flutter and thud, and Bucky rubs at the back of his neck, pausing to lean on the counter, close his eyes and try to shove all the bits of his mind back where they fucking went. 

Sometimes his head ends up feeling like a fucking library after an earthquake, only worse. Today isn't that bad, probably because for the first time in days it's bright and if bright means cold he can just turn up the heat, and did.

He doesn't expect to hear Steve outside the front door, followed by the scrape of key-deadbolt-latch as the door opens. And it's a bit unusual that Steve doesn't say anything, the noises of getting rid of boots and coat rattling on unaccompanied as Bucky fills the pot with water and measures in the coffee. 

And if Bucky's not surprised to hear Steve come around and into the kitchen, or startled to feel Steve's hand touch his shoulder, he's not expecting the follow-up to that to be Steve's arms wrapping tightly around his waist, hands working under his shirt to touch skin, or Steve's face buried in the crook of his neck, with Steve breathing like someone hauled out of deep water. 

It's not bad, the furthest thing from, but it's _worrying_ and Bucky stops what he's doing, rests his right hand on Steve's arm, half-turns his head and says, "You okay? Someone die?" 

Steve gives a startled, almost half-laugh and lifts his head, still resting it against the side of Bucky's. "No," he says. "Nobody died. I'm fine, I just - I read a book." And then, like he realizes that's about as informative as - well, it isn't, he adds, "A book Natasha told me I shouldn't read." 

And he might manage to sound calm and off-hand, but Bucky can feel the tension in him, like whatever his head thinks his body's actually pretty fucking worried Bucky's going somewhere and not coming back - and he smells faintly of sweat tinged with unhappy fear, like something upset him and he decided to run or kill a few punching bags to work it off, and there's a gravel edge to his voice like he's talking through a closed throat. "Maybe you shouldn't fucking do that," Bucky tells him, mildly, for lack of anything else to say. 

Steve manages something like a laugh again, but not that well. He rests his forehead on Bucky's shoulder again. 

The coffee-pot's sitting on the stove, but Bucky doesn't bother to turn it on, doesn't really want it. There's a tight, twisted _something_ at the top of his spine that's been there all fucking day that's starting to release and actually most of him is completely fucking fine with the idea of standing here until Steve's subconscious decides Steve can relax, or forever, whichever comes first. Fuck. 

The last bit of him, the bit that isn't quite as selfish as the rest and won't ignore the fact that he knows Steve, says, "You should shower. What the Hell did you dump all over yourself?" he adds, because there's an edge of sweet-dried-milk-something-else he can't pin down to the smell, and Steve sighs. 

"Most of an Earl Grey tea latte," he says. "You're probably smelling cheap bergamot extract." 

"You're supposed to put lattes in your _mouth_ , Steve, not on your lap," Bucky informs him, "and that means you should definitely shower." 

Steve turns his face towards Bucky's neck, cheek resting skin to skin and says, "You should come with me." 

It's not like there's any good fucking reason in fucking Creation not to. 

 

He fucks Steve against the shower wall, left hand braced against the tile and right wrapped around Steve's waist until Steve slides his hand down Bucky's forearm and tangles their fingers, and pulls Bucky's hand up to his mouth. His teeth scrape up the sides of Bucky's thumb; he sucks on the first two fingers until Bucky turns his hand to catch Steve's chin and turn his head instead, so Bucky can kiss him, bite his lower lip and then kiss him again. He rakes the fingers of his right hand down Steve's ribs and feels skin-heat and water-slick and Steve shuddering under his skin. 

When Steve comes he's half-begging, half-babbling praise and the words feel like they slide under Bucky's skin and twist heat around his spine until he can't fucking breathe and doesn't want to. He bites the back of Steve's neck, buries his face in the curve and comes with Steve's breathless, unasked-for _yours_ scraping the inside of his mind clean. 

They lean against the wall, and Bucky kisses Steve's neck to the shell of his ear, open-mouthed and trying to get enough air. 

When he asks, "What the fuck did you _read_ , Steve?" and steps back a little, Steve twists and catches his waist, pulls him back so Bucky's back is against the wall and Steve can kiss his mouth again, almost long enough and deep enough for Bucky to stop caring about the answer before Steve rests his forehead against Bucky's temple. 

"Something I'm gonna pretend I didn't," he says: the edge is less, but he's pretty fucking fervent both with that and when he adds, "and _nothing_ I'm gonna share." 

"You're fucking ridiculous," Bucky tells him, right hand stroking down the back of his neck. 

"Yeah," Steve says, and kisses the side of Bucky's head and the skin in front of his ear. "Just stay where you can keep telling me that." 

Bucky snorts, softly, but when he asks, "Where the fuck else would I go?" Steve moves so he can look right at him, stroke the side of his face. 

"Way too many fucking places," Steve says, serious as the fucking grave. "Just. Too many." 

And Bucky thinks _Jesus fucking Christ, Steve, what_ did _you fucking read?_ but he says, "I'm not fucking going anywhere." 

And Steve says, "Okay," like until Bucky said it, it wasn't true. 

 

They get out of the shower eventually. End up on the futon with Bucky leaning on a thick pillow against one of the arms and Steve leaning his back against Bucky's chest, watching _Parks and Rec_ because some intern at the Tower that Steve talks to sometimes insisted. It's almost as insane as the Korean dramas, except it's supposed to be funny. As far as Bucky's concerned, it's hit or miss, but Steve likes it. 

He's considered finding his phone and asking Romanova what the fuck she told Steve not to read, but it's on the kitchen counter and he's comfortable here. Steve's been idly tracing the veins in Bucky's wrist the whole time they've been watching and at this point the sensation of Steve's fingertips on skin completely awake is more diverting than anything on the TV, and Bucky's not about to make it stop before it has to. 

The smell of fake bergamot, watery milk and unhappy-fear are gone; Steve's skin and hair smell faintly of soap and shampoo but mostly like himself. His weight is warm and solid against Bucky's chest and stomach and the inside of his thighs, and there's a kitten curled up on Bucky's left shoulder where it makes a little hollow between the futon and the pillow and him. And the inside of his head is scraped out and quiet, just for now, and he doesn't have to listen to it. He can just feel Steve's fingers on his wrist, palm against the back of his hand, body against his; he can just stare at the completely fucking irrational people on the screen and listen to the idiot cat's half-asleep purr. 

Just here, for a while. Just for now.

**Author's Note:**

> The book is _The Lord of the Rings_ , which to Steve ends up with all other story-lines obliterated by the burning, acid-eating painful one that is "The Story Of How Sam Failed To Keep Frodo From Getting So Fucked Up And Broken That He Lost Him And Frodo Had To Leave". To him it's a horrible bleak soul-destroying book and he doesn't know why anyone likes it. 
> 
> Natasha told him not to read it (after some pop-culture or other mention made him curious). She told him not to read it because she _knew_ he'd react like that. She will be over here, sighing at him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] which one of us is caving](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4114291) by [echolalaphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/echolalaphile/pseuds/echolalaphile)




End file.
